


What Happened to His Throat

by olivebranchesandredwine



Series: Unanswered Questions [4]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Queer Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hickeys, Holding Hands, Introspection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, grumpy!Patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivebranchesandredwine/pseuds/olivebranchesandredwine
Summary: This installment of Unanswered Questions addresses why Patrick starts wearing undershirts. There is also hand-holding. Thank you to thegrayness, who won't know until she reads this that she inspired this one today. 😘





	What Happened to His Throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegrayness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrayness/gifts).

“Stop smirking, David.” Patrick scowls at his boyfriend’s reflection in the mirror as he buttons another button on his light blue Oxford shirt. “It’s not funny.”

David doesn’t even try to hide the grin at this point; he just lets that crooked smirk spread wide across his whole face, making his dimples pop. His eyes are crinkling at the corners, shining with glee as he wraps his arms around Patrick’s middle. “It’s a little funny,” he teases as he noses against the short hair above Patrick’s ear. David hasn’t put on his signature black and white sweater yet (_one day I’ll ask where he keeps them all_), and Patrick feels a zing rough down his spine at the sight of David’s forearms flexing in the mirror.

“I’m serious, David,” Patrick yanks his collar together and buttons up _another _button. “It’s unprofessional. And I look ridiculous.”

“You look gorgeous,” David quips, tracing his mouth along the shell of Patrick’s ear. “It’s ridiculous how good you look in such boring clothes.” He takes the lobe between his lips, flicks the tip of his tongue across it, and sucks.

Patrick’s whole body relaxes as he melts into the sensation of David’s mouth on his ear, his arms around his waist, his body pressed firmly against Patrick’s backside. David doesn’t play fair, and Patrick loves it. He loves it so much, and he knows he’s helpless to resist, which is how he’s come to be in this ridiculous predicament.

_Focus, Brewer._

“I mean it, David. You can’t keep doing this,” he grumbles, and his words would have a lot more weight if he had tried to, you know, move away from his boyfriend’s mouth before he spoke them.

“Doing what?” David quirks an eyebrow toward the mirror, and then goes back to what he was doing, feathering open-mouthed kisses from Patrick’s ear down his neck, pausing to nip and suck at the pulse point, the tip of his tongue tracing delicate circles on Patrick’s skin. It feels so good, so so so good, and Patrick wants to lean into it, let David’s mouth reduce him to a quivering mess right here in Ray’s bathroom—

“Are you _serious?”_ Patrick’s voice comes out pinched and breathless and maybe the _tiniest_ bit squeaky, not nearly as take-charge as he’d hoped to make it. So he takes another breath and makes sure the next part is loud and commanding, “You _cannot _give me another goddamned hickey while I’m getting dressed for work!” Yeah, that worked. Maybe it worked a little too well, if David’s reaction is any indication.

David stops immediately and steps back, putting more than enough room for Jesus—as Patrick’s great-aunt Miranda would call it—between their bodies. And Patrick misses David’s touch immediately, wants to press himself back into David’s embrace, to feel David’s mouth on his throat and his hands wandering down his body; now his entire body feels too cold.

But David isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at the floor, and his whole demeanor has shifted in that moment. Patrick is no longer looking at his boyfriend David; behind him now in this tiny, avocado-green bathroom stands wild, aloof David Rose, that fumbling, distant, _beautiful_ man made of equal parts haughtiness and uncertainty who sat across from Patrick all those months ago.

“I-I’m sorry,” David’s voice is barely audible; it’s a soft, hesitant wisp of thing that he exhales quickly as he pushes past Patrick and out the door, “I got carried away.” And just like that, the invisible wall that Patrick has worked so hard to break down over all these months is back. It happens sometimes, still, though it has been a while. It hasn’t happened since they said “I love you.” Maybe it was stupid, Patrick realizes now, to think it was gone completely.

“David, wait—” Patrick begins, following his boyfriend out of the bathroom, but David has moved too fast, the way he does when he’s really hungry, or when he’s feeling really vulnerable, and they just finished the pancakes before this—whatever the fuck _this _is—happened. Because of a stupid hickey.

David is coming out of his room before Patrick has made it down the hallway, and now he’s wrapped up in his David Rose armor of whatever fancy brand sweater that is, black with some sort of white bird design all over, his black bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes still downcast.

“I’ll see you at the store,” David mumbles to his feet as he goes.

“That went well,” Patrick sighs to himself as he checks his reflection in the mirror one more time before choosing comfort over propriety and unbuttoning that last button.

_Maybe nobody will notice._

—

Patrick hasn’t heard from David in hours, no calls, no answering his phone, no responding to Patrick’s texts. The logical, methodical part of his brain—the part of his brain with the MBA and knowledge of obscure Excel formulae and proper Latin declensions—keeps telling Patrick that’s ok, because it’s David’s day off, and it’s not like he’s so codependent he can’t go a few hours with radio silence from his boyfriend. But the rest of his brain is worried. The sentimental, sappy part of his brain that notices how David always shows up on Tuesday afternoons with a flimsy excuse to do _something _in the store, and how they always hold hands as they walk to the cafe for an early dinner after they close up together, even though it’s David’s day off. That part of his brain misses his boyfriend, and worries that he isn’t returning his calls.

At least nobody has noticed the bit of hickey visible beneath his collar. Or if they’ve noticed, they haven’t said anything. However, since Roland was in for some applesauce and tea earlier and didn’t say anything, Patrick’s pretty sure he’s in the clear. It’s not like Roland is one for discretion. Ever.

And of course, that makes Patrick feel even worse, because it wasn’t even that _visible _to begin with. But. Patrick has been aware of it all _goddamn _day, pushing against it until it aches, staring at that tiny flash of crimson during lulls in traffic. He doesn’t even do it consciously, to be honest. His mind will drift into the comfort of a daydream, and when he shakes back into awareness, he’s admiring the bruise in the mirror, the pads of his fingers stroking and pressing the tender flesh.

That’s what he’s doing with the shop bell rings just before closing, actually, so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice that someone has walked in until they’re standing across the counter from him and speaking.

“I’m sorry about your neck,” David breathes, his voice stolid, flat and determined, like he’s been practicing the words and is desperate just to get them out without breaking, “I crossed a line, and I shouldn’t have.”

Patrick’s heart simultaneously breaks and soars as he takes in the sight of the striking man before him, his face all earnest and defeated. David’s eyes remain fixed on a rough spot on the wooden counter, and all Patrick wants in this moment is to tilt that chin up and kiss David until that wall crumbles back down and David is smiling his unguarded, full-faced smile, the one with the dimples that lights up Patrick’s whole body.

“Thank you David, I appreciate your apology,” he starts, his voice a little bit shaky, “I-uh, I’m sorry, too. I overreacted a bit.” And now it’s Patrick’s turn to stare at what an outsider would assume is the world’s most fascinating shop counter as he slowly, carefully slides his hand forward on the counter. This David, vulnerable even in his Givenchy (_that’s a brand, right?_) armor and invisible walls, is a skittish David. This David, the one that still sometimes believes that he is _damaged goods, _the one who’s ready to bolt like a feral kitten at any sudden movement…this beautiful, vulnerable, breathtakingly brilliant man standing before him and laying his soul bare, and Patrick loves him so much, so fucking much that it hurts to breathe sometimes, and now all Patrick wants is to show David that he’s ok, that they’re ok, and that the stupid thing this morning was just that. _Stupid._

So Patrick turns his palm up—as an offering, a request, a desperate plea for them to just be touching again. And as he stands there, his hand outstretched, Patrick feels time stop, feels his body lose the ability to take a breath, feels an eternity go by in the seconds that he waits for David to respond. Waiting. Because he knows that he will _always_ wait for David, no matter what, because David is worth the wait.

Slowly, so slowly, slower than the movement of glaciers, David shifts, uncrossing his arms, dropping that protective gate from his heart as he reaches forward and drops his hand into Patrick’s. And just like that, time starts moving again. Patrick coils his fingers around David’s like a Venus flytrap around a fly, his movement rapid and awkward in its intensity. He tugs that hand to his mouth and peppers David’s knuckles with kisses, gentle and then not-so gentle, before leaning over the counter and reaching his free hand for David’s neck.

“I’m so sorry I upset you, love,” Patrick mutters into David’s mouth as he pulls him down for a kiss.

“Me too. I’m sorry about the hickey,” David gasps out between kisses. “But, uh… I think I figured out a solution.” He brings his free hand to Patrick’s chest, breaking the kiss so that he can pick up a shopping bag from the floor.

David reaches in and pulls out…a soft white tee-shirt. Patrick’s brows knit together in slight confusion, “Oooo-kay?”

“Go in the back and try it on. Under the Oxford, please,” David commands.

_Mmm, bossy David, _Patrick’s dick gets a bit happy at that idea.

“OK, David.”

And _oh. _Although it looks like a plain white tee to Patrick’s undiscerning eye, the shirt feels like heaven when he slips it on, all soft and silky against his bare skin. He slides the Oxford back on, unbuttoned, and walks back out to the floor.

David just hums in appreciation, which makes Patrick blush. “Look in the mirror, Patrick.”

_Yep, _Patrick’s dick _definitely_ likes the sound of bossy David. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?” He asks, only _slightly_ exasperated because David is giving him _that_ look and, well.

“It’s more what you’re _not_ looking at. What you can’t see,” David’s voice is a little bit lower now, a hoarse rumble that reminds Patrick of how he sounds after swallowing his cock. Patrick feels his cheeks burn as the smile spreads wide, threatening to split his face open.

“Oh,” is all Patrick can manage as he brings his fingers to the neckline, gently pushes the tips against the collar, moaning _just _a little as he feels the ache from the pressure on the bruise, “oh.” He glances back down to the counter, his smile soft and sweet as he continues to press into the hickey from last night.

“How would you feel about ordering in tonight?” Patrick asks, hopefully, his voice teasing but holding on to the barest hint of uncertainty. “I think we have some…uh, new territory to explore?I mean…if-if you want.”

Patrick glances up at David through his lashes, like he’s looking at the sun itself, afraid that he’ll be obliterated if he dares to look straight on.

At least not yet. Not until he sees…_that_. David’s smirk begins to drift, moving from the tight confines of his left cheek, spreading across his face, to the right cheek, to his eyes, until he’s smiling, bright and open and beautiful and wild, and letting Patrick in again, as though those gorgeous dimples were the magic key to unlock that wall.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” David tugs their still interlaced hands up to his lips, kisses the back of Patrick’s hand so softly. “Let’s do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> A hearty thank you to all the beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate souls at the Rosebudd who have helped me turn a hyper fixation into a community.


End file.
